


The Special Helper

by Kiraly



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: (Not the entire fic just the last scene), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Bonding, Gen, Pre-Canon, Smol Reynir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9165961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiraly/pseuds/Kiraly
Summary: Scenes from Reynir's life as he grows up in Iceland, plus one day in the Silent World.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Hello AuntyAgonee! I hope you like this Silent Night gift! I couldn't resist making use of our newfound family tree knowledge to expand on Reynir's family, so thank you for requesting them. :)
> 
> A little note about the last section - as of the time I posted this, the most recent comic page was [654](http://sssscomic.com/comic.php?page=654). So I'm assuming everyone will get out of that...situation...just fine, but if not, consider that last part canon-divergent. Edit: YEP, let's go ahead and call that last scene canon-divergent. Yeah.
> 
> Also, many thanks to Elleth for beta-reading and cheering me on as I was writing! And thanks to Laufey for your input about what Icelandic children call their parents, I imagine I'll be making use of that quite often.

**Year 74**

The world was a maze of dirty wool balanced on little legs. The walls moved, and it made for a fun game: stay standing even when a curious head bleated and butted him in the side. Keep his booted feet from getting stepped on by cloven hooves. And most importantly, avoid being spotted by anyone bigger than him.

That last part was the hardest. The giggling always gave him away.

“Reynir!” Strong hands plucked him from the midst of the sheepfold, lifting him high in the air. It only made him laugh harder, as it always did, no matter how grumpy Ólafur looked when he brought Reynir to face him. “You’re not supposed to be in here, you know that!”

“But I  _ like  _ the sheepies!” Reynir swung his legs back and forth, a wordless demand to be set on his feet. Ólafur ignored it.

“It’s good that you like them, but you can’t go wandering around in there. What if one of them stepped on your foot?” Ólafur hefted Reynir onto his shoulder and tweaked his toes.

Reynir giggled. “Ouchie,” he agreed. He’d learned to be careful, but the sheep hadn’t.

“Yes, ‘ouchie’ is right. Now look, if I put you down, will you promise to stay out of there?” Ólafur fixed him with a stern gaze.

Reynir twisted the end of his hair, which had just grown long enough to put in a braid like his brother’s. Funny that his brothers and sisters had such dark, straight hair when his was all orange and curly. Maybe his would get darker when he was big and strong like Ólafur.

“I wanna help,” Reynir said, when Ólafur repeated his question, “help with the sheepies.”

Ólafur sighed. “So that means, ‘no, I won’t stay out but I don’t want you to get mad at me.’ Well, if you want to help, then,” he swung Reynir around to perch on his broad shoulders, “I guess you’ll just have to stay with me, and be my special helper. Okay?”

Reynir grabbed two handfuls of Ólafur’s hair. “Okay! I’m the special helper!” He rode out over the sea of sheep, giggling all the way.

* * *

 

**Year 77**

“Are you sure we’re allowed to do this?” Reynir whispered.

“No, dummy, that’s why I keep telling you to be  _ quiet!”  _ Bjarni hissed. He eased himself over the windowsill and dropped to the ground. After a moment, Reynir followed. He hadn’t ever been out this late; usually once he was sent to bed he stayed there, certain that one of the grown-ups would know if he left. But lambing was a busy season, and all of them were out of the house tonight, watching over the flock. Which just left Bjarni to watch over him.

“Watch your step. I don’t want to light the lantern until we’re far enough away from the house.” Bjarni walked ahead, picking his way carefully over the rocky terrain. Reynir stuck close behind him, trying to do what he was told and keep quiet. But that was easier said than done.

“Do you think Mamma and Pabbi will be mad, when they find out we’re gone?”

Bjarni snorted. “They’re not  _ going  _ to find out. We’ll go, see what we plan to see, and be back in bed before the first lamb is even born.”

“But what if—”

_ “Reynir.”  _ Bjarni stopped and turned, staring down at him. He was more than a head taller than Reynir, and should have been intimidating—except that the wooly hat pulled close over his ears ruined the effect. “Do you want to go back to bed like a good little sheep? Or do you want to come help me find the svartálfar?” 

Reynir shivered. Part of him did want to go back to bed, where it was warm and safe and no one would get in trouble. But the rest of him—

“I want to go with you! I can help, I promise!” He clenched his fists and stuck out his chest, trying to look fierce and brave and not like his knees were shaking.

Bjarni clapped him on the shoulder. “Good! Now come on, let’s go.”

They crested the hill where the stories said the svartálfar lived. Scattered stones formed a rough shape that could almost be a circle, with some imagination, and lost sheep often ended up there. During the day, it was peaceful. But now, with no light but Bjarni’s lantern, it was all too easy to believe the stories of strange creatures living nearby. Even easier to remember the stories he wasn’t meant to have heard, the ones his older siblings told each other when he was supposed to be asleep.

“Bjarni,” Reynir whispered, “The svartálfar are...nice, right? Like in that one story, they made new hair for the lady who lost hers, and—”

“Sometimes,” Bjarni said. “I think so. I mean, there are a lot of stories, and—quiet!” He gripped Reynir’s arm, and both of them froze. “Did you hear that?”

The noise came again; a rattle of stone against stone. Reynir stared wildly around, searching for the source, but he couldn’t see anything. Beside him, he could feel Bjarni doing the same. The rattle sounded again, closer this time.

Reynir’s lip quivered. He wanted to be brave, he really did. But it was dark, and there was  _ something  _ out there, and suddenly it didn’t matter if Bjarni knew he was scared, because the hand on his arm was shaking too. 

_ “Bjarni,”  _ he breathed, barely letting the words out,  _ “I want to go HOME. If this is a joke—”  _

_ “It’s not,”  _ Bjarni hissed back,  _ “so shut up and—”  _

Something grabbed Reynir and yanked him backwards. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

“AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!” Reynir and Bjarni screeched and tried to run, but they each pulled in opposite directions. The grip on Reynir’s shoulder tightened, and his captor shoved him against Bjarni. His head banged against Bjarni’s chest, and they both sat down hard.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t eat us I promise I’ll be good—”

“I’ll never leave the house after bedtime again I’m sorry I won’t—”

“Will you two shut up? You’re going to scare the sheep!”

Reynir’s mouth snapped shut. Bjarni broke off mid-sentence, snatched the lantern from the ground, and squinted up. “Guðrun?!”

Their sister folded her arms. “Who did you  _ think  _ it was? And what are you two doing out of the house? Mamma will skin you alive when she finds out!”

“I...we were just...we wanted to see…” Bjarni couldn’t form a sentence. Reynir opened his mouth to try, and found he was gulping back tears instead. He flung himself at Guðrun’s leg and clutched it, shaking with sobs.

“W-we thought...s-s-svartálfar...gonna EAT us, and—”

“Oh,  _ honestly.”  _ Guðrun threw her hands in the air. “Those svartálfar stories again? Listen, there’s nothing up here except  _ hopefully  _ the pregnant ewe I’m looking for. Now look, stop, don’t—” It was no good—now that Reynir had started crying, he couldn’t stop. Guðrun sighed. “Come on, then.” She pulled Reynir into her arms like a lost lamb, hugging him tightly before turning so he could climb onto her back. “I should be making you carry him, Bjarni,” she grumbled, standing, “he’s getting too big for this. And I’m sure it wasn’t  _ his  _ idea to sneak out.”

Bjarni scuffed his boot against a rock. “I didn’t know he was gonna get so scared.”

“Well, he did. And now I have to drag you two along to see if we can find this ewe, because I’m not sending you back alone. Come on, I thought I heard her off this way before I saw your light. Bjarni, grab my bucket, I left it over there.” Guðrun set off, Reynir clinging to her and Bjarni trailing behind them.

They found the ewe in a sheltered space between two rocks, lying on her side with her head raised. Guðrun approached her carefully, crouching down to let Reynir off her back. “Can’t tell how long she’s been trying, but she might need help. Do you two think you can follow my directions?”

Bjarni nodded. Reynir wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Yes.”

“All right, then.” Guðrun rolled her sleeves up and knelt next to the laboring sheep. “Bjarni, hold the light up. Reynir—well, it’s probably about time you saw this. You’ll be doing a lot of it when you get older.”

It was still dark when they arrived home hours later, trailing the ewe and two wobbly lambs. Reynir stumbled over the doorstep, clutching the back of Bjarni’s sweater to keep himself upright. They pulled their boots off at the door—as covered in mud as they were, Mamma was bound to notice in the morning—and were hanging their coats when Guðrun followed them in.

“Are you going to tell on us?” Bjarni asked, looking down at his feet.

Guðrun leaned against the door. “I should, you know. It’s dangerous to wander off at night, and convincing Reynir to come with you—you should know better, Bjarni.”

Reynir tugged at her sleeve. “It’s not all his fault though! I wanted to come. And...we did help with the sheep, right? We helped her have her babies!”

Guðrun chuckled and ruffled his hair. “Sure, I guess you did. Not that she needed a lot of help, but it’s good we found her before something else did.” She cast a less-charitable look at Bjarni. “What do you have to say for yourself? I think you owe your little brother  _ something  _ for putting him in danger and scaring him. Don’t you think?”

Bjarni muttered something.

“What was that?” Guðrun asked.

“I said, I’m SORRY. I shouldn’t have done that, Reynir. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Bjarni glowered at his sister. “Okay?”

Guðrun shrugged. “Fine, I guess that will have to do. Go on, get up to bed before Mamma and Pabbi come home. I have to go check in with them.”

As they climbed into bed, Bjarni sighed and rolled to face Reynir. “Hey. I do mean it, okay? I’m sorry.”

Reynir pulled the blankets up to his chin. “Okay.” He was quiet for a while, then added, “You know what? It wasn’t all bad. We did what we meant to do!”

Bjarni pushed up onto his elbow. “What do you mean?”

Reynir laughed. “We found out what the svartálfar look like.”

“We did?”

“Yeah. They look just like Guðrun!”

* * *

 

**Year 81**

It was quiet in the storage shed. Cramped, and crowded with tools and scraps of building material, but at this time of night no one would come barging in to interrupt him. Everyone else was busy anyway, making sure Hildur had everything packed to leave in the morning. If Reynir wanted to mope in the shed, no one was going to stop him.

So when the door opened, he didn’t expect it at all; he stumbled backward and tripped over a bucket, knocking over a row of shovels.

“Ow! Oh, no…”

“So  _ this  _ is where you’ve been hiding! I’ve been looking for you.” Hildur closed the door behind her and bent down to help him gather the fallen tools.

“Why?” Reynir asked, “Don’t you have a lot to do before tomorrow?” He couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice.

Hildur retrieved the bucket and turned it over to sit on it. She pulled up another and patted it. “Come here.”

Reynir sat. He waited for her to speak—to give the lecture he’d gotten three times already, whenever a new sibling left, about how they had to go out and make their way in the world. Ólafur and Guðrun had merely sat him down and explained it, in simple words a child could understand. Bjarni had taken him up on the roof, given a grand speech about adventure, and gotten them both in trouble when Pabbi found them. Hildur wasn’t one to make a spectacle. She didn’t even talk much, most of the time, especially when her louder siblings were around. She always seemed happiest when she was doing something with her hands.

So it shouldn’t have surprised Reynir when, instead of talking, she pulled out two hunks of wood and handed one to him. He recognized it immediately; it was the block she’d been using to teach him to carve, ever since Mamma and Pabbi had decided he was old enough. All he’d managed to do was whittle away some of the edges. 

“Here.” Hildur passed him a knife. It wasn’t the one he was used to; that had been small, nearly too small for his growing hands, and had never stayed sharp. This knife was sharp, but it wasn’t a new knife, either.

Reynir looked across at Hildur, who was brushing a curled wood shaving off her knee. “This...this is  _ your  _ knife, Hildur.”

She smiled and went back to her carving. The knife in her hand was shiny, a military-grade blade to mark the start of her career. Their parents had given it to her at breakfast. “It’s yours now,” she said. 

“But…” Reynir looked at the knife, and looked back at his sister. “Don’t you need it?”

“Don’t you?” Hildur looked up from her work—a delicate sheep emerging from the wood grain, looking ready to leap away at any moment—and nodded at the unformed lump of wood in Reynir’s hand. “If you’re going to make something of that, you’ll need a good knife.”

“I—”  _ I’m not very good at it,  _ he wanted to say, as though the block of wood didn’t speak for itself. But knowing Hildur, she’d just tell him to try anyway. She’d said the same thing when he despaired of ever learning to spin, and when he’d tried to throw his knitting in the fire after dropping a stitch  _ again.  _ And he’d tried, and gotten better, and given her his first-ever knit hat—lumpy, but warm—as a going-away present.

So he swallowed his protest. “All right,” he said, settling the block and bringing the knife into position, “Thank you. I’ll make—I’ll make something for you. A sheep, to remind you of home.” He felt stupid as soon as he said it, because of course Hildur could carve her own sheep, but she didn’t laugh at him.

“I’d like that,” she said. She didn’t say  _ I’ll miss you  _ or  _ I’ll be home before you know it.  _ So Reynir didn’t say it either, or ask when she was coming back. They worked in silence, letting the rasp of knife against wood speak for them.

* * *

 

**Year 86**  


“Aaand...done! There, that wasn’t bad, was it girl? I think you look very nice.”

A snort of laughter. “I don’t think she cares about how she looks, as long as you got her out of that heavy coat.” 

Reynir laughed too. “Sure, but it doesn’t hurt to compliment someone, right? Especially not my favorite lady.” He patted the newly-shorn sheep on the head, and she nudged his leg.

His father finished with his own shearing and heaved the fleece onto the floor. “Don’t let your mother hear you say that, she’ll be jealous!”

“Jealous?” Both of them turned to look as a new figure entered the shearing room. “I’ll only be jealous if it turns out I’ve been working all morning while you two make jokes and pester my sheep.” His mother had exchanged her house apron for her sheep apron, and she had her sleeves rolled up.

“Of course not Mamma, we’ve been working hard!” Reynir said.

“Yes, your son has been practicing how to talk to ladies. A very important skill for a young person to have.” His father winked, and dodged away as his wife aimed a playful cuff at him. 

“Don’t tease the boy, Árni,” she said, “I seem to remember someone else who practiced all his best lines on the sheep.”

Reynir nearly dropped the fleece he was rolling. “What? Pabbi, did you—?”

“Sigríður…” Apparently Reynir wasn’t the only one whose face turned the color of his hair when he was embarrassed.

His mother continued. “And not only that, but he also tried to impress girls with his shearing prowess. That one didn’t go so well, did it Árni?”

“Oh, I don’t know...it worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?” His father set his fleece on the stack and caught her around the waist. “Even if you did win the shearing contest.”

“And I still can,” she said, stretching up to kiss him.

Reynir covered his eyes. “Mamma, Pabbi, I’m  _ right here!”  _

“And how do you think you  _ got  _ here in the—ow! Okay, okay, I’ll stop teasing him.” His father picked up his shears. “Speaking of shearing contests...how about a little rematch, Sigríður? Since you’re so sure you can still beat me after all these years.”

“Árni Ragnarsson, are you challenging me?” She put her hands on her hips. “Right. Get me a sheep, I’m going to shear more than both of you put together! Losers have to wash the dishes tonight.”

For the next hour, Reynir ducked his head and did his best to ignore the way his parents went back and forth, calling out numbers and reminding each other of stories from their youth. It would have been fascinating—Mamma had done  _ that?!  _  And Pabbi used to date  _ him?!  _ —if it hadn’t been so embarrassing. By the time the last sheep was shorn, he was ready to hide in the pile of fleeces and not come out until he turned eighteen. 

“It was a good try,” Mamma said, plucking bits of wool from her skirt, “And you two should be very proud. Not everyone can get that close to winning a sheep shearing contest against me. Wasn’t that a nice father-son bonding moment?”

Pabbi laughed and slung an arm around each of them, pulling them into a hug. “Oh, sure. And we’ll have another bonding moment over the dishes, won’t we Reynir?”

“Oof!” Reynir squirmed, but he didn’t pull away. “It’s a good thing you had me to help you, Pabbi. I can’t imagine how badly Mamma must have beaten you the first time!” 

His mother hugged him too. “Oh, yes. You are our little helper, you know that? Maybe not so little anymore though.”

Reynir rested his chin on her head. “Yes Mamma, I know.”

* * *

 

**Year 90**

The fires had gone out hours ago, but the battlefield still smelled of smoke and charred troll, even through the breathing mask. It didn’t make the contents of the pot over the fire any more appetizing, but Reynir stirred it anyway. They had to eat; had to keep their strength up for the days ahead. That was what Mikkel had said when he put the spoon in Reynir’s hand and handed him the pot. It made sense for him to do the cooking; everyone else had an actual job to do. Mikkel was busy tending injuries and conferring with Sigrun about their next course of action. Tuuri was crawling around under the tank, trying to see if there was any way to put it back together. And Emil and Lalli were patrolling the field, checking for new threats and making sure there were no sparks left to light the brittle grass.

Or at least, that was what they were  _ supposed  _ to be doing. From what Reynir could hear, Emil was mostly talking.

“...trolls. Something something FIRE something something. Something something MAGIC? Shit.” Reynir could only pick out a few of the words, some of which had come from Tuuri’s list of Swedish and one that he’d learned all on his own. Lalli probably didn’t understand any more than he did, but he nodded and patted Emil on the shoulder every now and then. Next to Emil’s distress, he seemed as calm and collected as always.

When Lalli saw Reynir watching, he steered Emil over and pointed to the food, raising his eyebrows in a question. At Reynir’s blank look he sighed and made a motion like he was raising a spoon to his mouth.

“Oh! You want to know if it’s ready? Well, I’m not actually sure, it’s definitely hot but—well, I guess it doesn’t matter, it’s not going to be good no matter how long it cooks.” Neither Emil nor Lalli seemed to understand a word of that, so Reynir reached for a bowl and scooped up some food. He offered the first bowl to Emil, who blanched but picked up the spoon with a brave face. Before he could fill a second bowl, Lalli stopped him.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Reynir asked. “I thought you wanted—” 

Lalli shook his head, stepped away, and made an impatient gesture. 

“You want me to follow you?”

Another hand wave, another step away.

“All right, I’m coming, just let me—” To be honest, it probably wouldn’t hurt the food if he stopped watching it. He handed the stirring spoon to Emil anyway. “If it starts to smoke, stir it. Okay?”

Emil blinked. “O...kej?” 

Reynir turned to Lalli, who was already walking away. “Wait, I’m coming!” He caught up with the other mage after a few steps. “What are we doing?”

Lalli didn’t answer. Instead, he led Reynir away from the tank, to the place where he’d drawn on the ground with a stick mere hours ago. Every step stirred up ash, and Reynir was careful to avoid stepping on the larger lumps that had once been trolls. He probably shouldn’t be out here. He shouldn’t be here at all, so far away from home and so...useless. He’d been bored at home, but at least he’d always had something to do. Out here, the best he could do was stay out of the way and stay alive.

Reynir stepped over another pile of troll remains. “Wow, Onni really did a number on these, didn’t he? Tuuri said something about a spell, and a bird, and that was why everything was on fire, but I didn’t—”

Lalli held up a hand. Reynir stopped where he was and followed Lalli’s gaze. There was more charring on the ground, but this was not the wide swath of burned area that marked a ring around the tank. These lines were thinner, and formed a pattern that almost looked like—

“Wait, those are—are those my runes?” Even though he’d spoken in Icelandic, Lalli seemed to know what he meant. He nodded, pointed from the burns to Reynir. Reynir knelt down to examine them. “I don’t understand...these were supposed to keep the ghosts away.” Instead they’d burned, leaving his mark scorched into the ground and smoldering heaps of troll. Which...was something. Maybe something even better than repelling ghosts.

“Does this mean...that I actually helped?” Reynir looked up at Lalli, who returned his gaze without saying anything. He started back to the tank, leaving Reynir to contemplate his handiwork.

“I helped,” he said again, hardly able to believe it. But the evidence was right in front of him. Even though he was here by mistake, even though he couldn’t fight or scout or fix the tank—he’d done something useful. Something only he could do, because he was a mage.  _ A special helper.  _ The words echoed through the years, a reminder of all the times he’d helped his family—though really, they’d been the ones helping him. Now he was far away from them, but he had new people to care about. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with this magic,” he said, looking at his hands and what they’d wrought, “But I’m going to do my best to use it. I’m going to help however I can.”  And although his family wasn’t here to tell him so, he knew they’d be proud of him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The "svartálfar" mentioned in the second section come from Norse mythology - they're some kind of "dark elves" or possibly dwarfs, best known for having made new hair for Siv (Thor's wife) after Loki shaved hers off. I have no idea if they'd be something one would go looking for in Post-Rash Iceland, but it seems possible.


End file.
